Lyra's POV
I refused to turn around.
The limousine pulled away, leaving me standing alone on that desolate stretch of asphalt. I watched the sleek black vehicle disappear around the bend, its engine noise growing fainter until silence swallowed everything. Just me, the oppressive heat, and the thick wall of trees closing in from every direction.
Good. Let him go.
My hands trembled with fury, not fear. The sheer nerve of that man. His insufferable arrogance knew no bounds. He genuinely believed I would come crawling back to him. Expected me to sign his humiliating contract and participate in whatever twisted game he had planned to destroy me piece by piece.
He understood nothing about who I really was.
I glanced down at the wedding gown clinging to my body. The pristine white fabric was already collecting dust around the hem, and perspiration gathered beneath my arms and down my back. The relentless sun hammered against my skull, and I could feel my exposed skin beginning to redden. Walking in this elaborate dress would be torture, but I would endure it. I always found a way to endure.
The empty road stretched endlessly in both directions. Heat waves danced above the black pavement, creating the illusion of water where none existed.
Following the road seemed like the logical choice. It had to lead somewhere eventually. Either back toward Willow Brook or forward to Ironfang. But logical was dangerous. Kaelen would anticipate me staying on the main route. When I failed to return begging for his forgiveness as he expected, he would likely send his people to collect me. To haul me back to his pack lands and use me as a warning to others.
I would not give him that pleasure.
The exposed road offered no relief from the punishing sun anyway. No shelter. No protection. Just endless miles of scorching pavement absorbing heat and throwing it back at me. Dehydration would claim me within hours. Sunstroke and delirium would follow by evening.
The forest beckoned from nearby. Thick and shadowy and mercifully cool. Old Arthur had taught me better than to ignore such obvious advantages. Survival meant choosing the intelligent path over the simple one.
I bunched the wedding dress skirt in my fists and made my way toward the tree line.
Stepping into that blessed shade felt like salvation. The temperature plummeted at least ten degrees instantly. My burning skin stopped tingling with heat. I could finally breathe without feeling like flames were filling my lungs.
I continued deeper into the woods.
Pine needles and decomposing leaves carpeted the forest floor, crunching softly beneath my bare feet. My shoes had vanished somewhere along the way. Perhaps abandoned at the wedding venue. Maybe they had slipped off during the limousine ride. It made no difference now. Footwear was a luxury I could not afford to worry about.
Old Arthur used to guide me through wilderness areas when I was younger. Before everything collapsed. Before Cyrus. Before Daphne and Helena decided I made a perfect target for their cruel schemes. He had served as a sentinel for decades, and he navigated forest terrain with the same ease others showed in their own living rooms.
"An effective tracker always thinks ahead," he would tell me in that gravelly voice, roughened by years of barking commands. "You assess your current position. You consider your destination. And you identify where danger might be waiting."
I was far from an expert tracker. But I had absorbed enough lessons. Enough to understand that staying roughly parallel to the road would prevent me from becoming completely lost. Enough to know that heading east would eventually bring me back toward Willow Brook. Enough to keep myself alive.
Hopefully.
I forced my way through drooping branches and climbed over fallen tree trunks. The elaborate wedding gown snagged on thorns and tangled brambles, and I heard expensive fabric ripping. Perfect. The ridiculous thing served no practical purpose anyway. What designer created a dress that hindered movement more than helped it?
The mate bond still pulsed in my chest. That artificial connection the healer had begged the goddess to force into existence. I could sense it thrumming steadily. Could feel Kaelen somewhere on the other end of that link, distant but undeniably present.
I concentrated on that sensation. Mentally grasped it and pushed back with all my strength.
The bond wavered. Grew dim. Then vanished entirely behind the mental barrier I constructed.
Shielding had been Cyrus's contribution to my education. Back when we were still together. Back when I believed his declarations of love and imagined we would build a life together. He had shown me how to block the bond when we wanted privacy. When we needed to prevent our emotions from bleeding into each other during routine activities.
"Think of it like shutting a door," he had explained, his hands resting gently on my shoulders. His smile had seemed so genuine. His entire persona had been an elaborate deception, but the technique itself was legitimate. "You simply visualize a wall between yourself and the bond. Make it substantial. Make it real. Then push."
I had practiced relentlessly for weeks until the skill became automatic. Until the shield activated instinctively whenever I required it.
Now it felt like second nature.
I refused to let Kaelen monitor my location. Refused to allow him to hunt me through the bond like some escaped animal. He could discover on his own that I had no intention of returning.
My phone remained tucked in this absurd dress pocket. Thank goodness I had grabbed it this morning before that mockery of a wedding ceremony. Before everything fell apart. The battery had to be nearly drained by now, but checking seemed worthwhile.
I retrieved it carefully. The screen showed spider web cracks from my fall at the altar, but it still functioned. Barely. Three percent battery remaining. No service bars.
Naturally there was no signal. We were in the middle of nowhere. Private territory that probably lacked cell towers for miles in any direction.
But I had to attempt contact.
I continued walking while holding the phone high, searching for reception. Nothing. Still nothing. The battery dropped to two percent.
Then a single bar flickered into view. Weak and unstable, but present.
I stopped moving. Held my breath. Dialed my father's number.
One ring. Two rings. Then an automated recording. "The number you are trying to reach is not available."
Not out of service. Not disconnected. Deliberately blocked.